Part One – Returning to the Mansion
Marie…

We walked back into the mansion like zombies, oblivious for the time being, to the aftermath of Stryker's earlier invasion. To say that we were numb would be an understatement - we were literally running on autopilot.

Personally, I felt as if I were lost in a dream – a nightmare – unable to comprehend what had happened.

That Jean was dead; that the beautiful red haired doctor had sacrificed herself to save our lives.

That we had left her back at Alkali Lake.

I could still see her face in my head, from when she had looked back at us for that one final time - the sadness in her eyes - eyes that had flamed orange – so mesmerising and yet so tragic. But there had been acceptance in her stare too, a belief that she was doing the right thing, and a hope that we might think so too.

And perhaps she was. Perhaps she *was* fulfilling her destiny. Perhaps we would all come to recognize that in time.

But that didn't stop the pain.

And – god - if we weren't all hurting. Hurting so badly. Grief sweeping us like a rampant disease, so merciless, so cruel. Scott, understandably, bore the brunt of the pain that consumed us, no longer able to maintain that Fearless Leader approach whilst his heart was breaking, disappearing up to his room before anyone could offer their condolences. Not that anyone really felt like mentioning what had happened anyway. It was too recent. Too fresh.

Still an open wound.

And Logan?

Logan was struggling to keep his emotions restrained, the Wolverine within simmering just below the surface, keeping him strong, unbreakable. But only just. The tears glistened behind those deep hazel eyes, literally a wrong-word away from spilling. And I vowed not to be the person to mistakenly utter that *wrong-word* so I chose to keep my distance, determined not to speak to him, to make eye contact, knowing that it would break *my* heart to see his breaking. My adolescent crush for him may have faded months ago but I knew that I would never stop caring for him. He had saved my life twice and a small part of him continued to reside inside my head, strangely comforting. How could I not care?

Besides, I knew him well enough to realise that he desired only to follow Scott's lead, to disappear. After mumbling something to the Professor he headed off in the direction of the garages and at first I assumed he'd take off on his bike somewhere. But the roar of the engine never came, and when I glanced anxiously out of the foyer window I saw that he was crossing the lawn, heading towards the lake, a bottle of whisky held firmly in his hand. He hadn't even changed out of his torn and bloody uniform.

I so longed to follow him, be there for him, as a friend should, but I had no choice but to forget him for the hours that followed, helping Storm and the Professor – and even our newest recruit Nightcrawler - readjust the children back into the mansion as best we could.

It was difficult though, for the place they thought of as a haven was obviously no longer safe to them. No longer able to protect them. They were nervous and edgy and it wrenched out my heart to see that most of their young faces seemed to have aged in the short space of twenty-four hours. Hardened. Bitter acknowledgment now etched into their fears. More so on the faces of those that Stryker had kidnapped and imprisoned at Alkali Lake and I so regretted not following Logan down to where Magneto had chained that bastard to the wall so that I could have spat in his face.

It seemed that war had hardened me too, just as much as the children.

We settled them in the sitting room with a light movie and hot drinks, Bobby and Colossus keeping a watchful eye on them. I could see that Bobby was taking St John's desertion to the Brotherhood rather badly and was desperately trying to keep himself together. As for me, in all honesty I wasn't entirely surprised, only disappointed, and deeply saddened, realising that I had lost a friend only to gain an enemy. But there could be no denying that there had always been something unsettling about Pyro. He could laugh and joke with the best of us, but there was always a touch of bitterness surrounding him, that held him back, kept him distant. I remembered Bobby confiding in me once, saying that although they were best friends he sometimes felt that John hated him for some reason. We both knew that John hadn't had the best of upbringings and wondered just how much he had yet to confide in us.

I doubted he ever would now.

As I headed back from the kitchen with the last of the hot drinks for the children I wondered when it had all gotten so complicated. Not only was there a war between mutants and humans, but mutants also seemed to be at one another's throats. I feared that the Professor's unwavering desire for peace would never be anything but an impossible dream and the broken glass crunching gleefully beneath my boots seemed to reinforce this like a mocking echo. If it was at all plausible to experience a heavy heart, mine weighed something rotten, almost to the point of becoming physically painful.

The Professor smiled tiredly at me as I handed out the drinks, appreciation in his eyes. "Thank you, Rogue," he said gently, in that smooth as silk voice of his and I nodded, returning the smile. At the same time my heart ached for him. He looked defeated even though we had won. Even though Stryker was dead. And I knew that it wasn't only down to the loss of Jean.

But I also knew that he would keep on striving for that impossible dream. Relentless in his pursuit for peace. I admired him all the more for it. Loved him in a way. Because he was like a father to me now. A father to us all. And I realised that through good times and bad he would always be there for us; never let us down.

Seeing that the children were a little more relaxed, (although subdued was more my conclusion), he finally retired to his study with the enormous task of making phone calls to the school maintenance team, to parents and to various other authorities that only he and Storm seemed to share knowledge of. I didn't care either way. I was too drained, both emotionally and physically to take an interest at that particular moment. I wasn't a fully-fledged X-Man yet anyway and assumed that I would only learn more once I *was* properly initiated, despite wearing a uniform for the first time that day. But that had mainly been for the President's benefit, and necessary if we were to look a team, if we were to show the President that we meant business. And if his final speech was anything to go by, he really did want the same thing as the Professor.

It gave us all a little spark of hope.

Storm's gentle voice brought me back to the present and I realised that I had been standing, staring into space.

"Rogue," she said soothingly. "Go have a shower, get out of that uniform."

I looked down at myself only then realising that I *did* still have it on, that I was in fact, the only one who hadn't changed out of it. Although I imagined that Logan was still wearing his, somewhere in the vicinity of the lake, drowning his sorrows in that bottle of whisky. Shaking his image from my mind I glanced back at Storm, her chocolate brown eyes calming and filled with her usual generosity of heart, despite her own inner turmoil.

I gestured to the children, huddled together on the sofas watching the movie and sipping at their drinks. "I suppose they find the uniforms a little unsettling under the circumstances."

Storm followed my gaze. "No," she offered sadly. "I fear they are beyond even that. Just pretty numb right now."

I tried to laugh but it sounded little more than a strained gurgle in my throat. "I think we all are."

She reached out for my hand and squeezed it. "Yes. It's been a tough couple of days."

"Are you sure you don't need me for anything? I can hold out for a shower a little longer." I couldn't really. I was desperate for somewhere to retreat and shed my own tears but a part of me wanted to delay the inevitable, frightened that once I started crying I might never stop.

She forced a smile. "Well, there's a lot of glass that needs sweeping up before maintenance gets here." She drew her hand away. "But we can start on that a little later. We all need some downtime. I'll just ensure that the children tread carefully when they go to bed."

I was secretly relieved, for it was proving a challenge to even keep myself upright by now. "Ok," I returned softly. "I'll go shower and be back in about half an hour."

"An hour," she insisted firmly, "At the very least. You've been through a lot today."

I nodded my defeat, running a hand wearily through my hair, the platinum white locks running through my fingers, a constant reminder of a man I now didn't know was friend or enemy, although I continued to favour the latter. "An hour it is, mam," I tried to joke, but my attempt at humour was as weak as I felt, the anguish overwhelming me reflecting back from Storm's eyes. It was only then I acknowledged that she had not only lost a teammate, but a best friend.

As we watched each other I think we were both wondering the same thing.

How were we ever going to get through this?

The tears started falling before I had even exited the room.


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Part Two – A Bond
Logan…

Lowering the bottle of whisky from his lips, Logan scowled, frustrated and angry, realising that he had drunk almost half the contents of the bitter tasting liquid, with no result whatsoever. Nothing. He didn't know why he even bothered. Sometimes that damned healing factor of his could be more of a hindrance than anything. Especially when all he wanted to do was get totally rat-faced…

When all he wanted to do was forget. Be numb. Be anything but the way he was feeling right now -

Hurting. Hurting bad. And the reasons were coming from all sides, conflicting aggressively, colliding to set off a series of mini explosions in his head. Right and wrong. Good and bad. Love and hate…Yeah, there was one hell of a war being fought inside that metal skull of his and there wasn't a white flag in sight to give him a moment of respite.

He brought the bottle back to his lips, gulping down the remainder of the whisky regardless of its uselessness, liquid spilling down his chin to splash onto his uniform to fuse with the splatters of dry blood that patterned the thick leather. When he had drained every last drop he angrily hurled the bottle into the lake with a howl, his cry coming out hoarse and strangled. In a twisted irony, it burnt his throat more than the whisky but he was oblivious to physical pain now – the emotional agony was far worst. Mentally exhausted, he groaned beneath his breath, having no idea how to handle the maelstrom in his head. How to even begin to handle it.

Hunching forward, the leather of his uniform creaking against the pull of his body, he ran his hands through his hair.

Jean was dead.

Jean. Was. Dead.

"Jean?" his voice came out little more than a croak and he clenched his fists tightly, feeling the adamantium itch restlessly beneath his skin, desperate for release. "Why d'ya do it, Red? Why?"

Yet deep down, he already knew why – suspected all the X-geeks would know why – he grimaced grudgingly - for the greater good. To save the lives of her comrades. Those she loved.

Love? he rolled the word around his tongue, its taste bittersweet.

A year ago, the old Logan would have been disgusted by such a sentiment, knowing only lust and rage and the overwhelming desire for revenge…but now…?

He scrubbed a hand across his face. Christ, he wished he could just go back to not caring. Become that don't-give-a-shit Logan again. Who only cared about himself and the next fight.

Laughlin City. That's where it all began.

He frowned, his face dark and dangerous, wishing he had never encountered that beautiful haunted girl at the bar. That day had been his undoing. Had started all this goddamn caring. The second he had looked into those desperate brown eyes he had been lost. The moment he had allowed her into his campervan the old Logan had started slipping away.

He lifted his head slightly and glanced out across the lake, surprised to note that the whisky bottle continued to float upon the surface, bobbing up and down on the gentle wind-driven waves, the sun flashing on its smooth surface every so often making him blink.

It seemed like a metaphor, a reviving slap in the face, suddenly making him acknowledge that he didn't really want the old Logan back at all. Didn't want to sink back into the pit of despair that a pair of desperate brown eyes had finally made him crawl out of. He liked the sun on his face and this new warmth that surrounded his heart. And if this hurting was the price he had to pay to feel less like an animal and more like a human being, well, he'd just have to accept it.

Learn to handle it.

But it didn't make the hurting any easier to bear.

He pulled at the neck of his uniform, suddenly finding it unbearably constricting and he wished that he had changed into his old clothes before stalking out of the mansion. But his need for escape had been intense and he felt that he was entitled to it just as much as One Eye. Summers may have lost his woman but Logan had lost a part of himself, a past that he had sought relentlessly for fifteen hellish years. Summers could grieve for a woman he knew and loved, Logan could never grieve for what he didn't know and would forever be haunted by the fact that Stryker could have told him everything if he had allowed him to live.

Revenge was bittersweet.

Ah, that word again – bittersweet. It fitted so many facets of his life now. He was a man weighted by so many contradictions, fighting inner demons as well as the mutant variety that he didn't really know who he was anymore. No longer the old Logan but not quite accepting of this new and improved Logan.

He suddenly stiffened, his heightened senses catching a familiar scent on the wind -one of his more dominating contradictions – Marie. Neither child nor woman yet both had a claim on his heart, although he had yet to determine in what way. When Jean had died he had felt crushed, yet when he thought Marie had died a part of him had almost died too.

He felt his shoulders slump, not sure whether he wanted her here, to see him like this, but as her scent intensified he savoured the way it swept around him anyway.

He sensed her hesitate a short distance away from him and he felt her sudden uncertainty about interrupting him like this. She was always this way, thinking of others before herself and he had appreciated her not talking to him when they had first returned to the mansion, taken aback by how well she understood him. He had put it down to the inner Logan in her head at first but had later wondered if it was something else, a bond they shared. It seemed crazy, a sweet eighteen-year-old girl and a rough ageless man, sharing a bond, but it also felt kinda good. He had seen so much darkness and depravity over the past fifteen years that even her beautiful smile seemed as if it had been sent from heaven.

"I know yer there, Marie."

He heard her take a deep breath. "Yeah, but the question is, do you want me here?"

He moved to make space for her on the large rock he sat upon.

"I brought you your clothes," she said gently, placing them into his lap. "'cause I didn't think you'd be ready to go back to the mansion just yet."

He accepted them with a strained smile. "Thanks, kid."

He watched as she settled herself upon the rock, pulling her knees into her chest and stared out across the lake.

"Isn't that your bottle I see floating out there?" she started, light- heartedly. "Because if it is, it isn't very environmentally friendly to just throw it away like that."

That's the way, darlin', he whispered into the silence of his mind. Act normal. Don't mention today. Don't mention Jean.

He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "You came out here just to have a go at me?" But at the same time he noted her dark rimmed eyes and tear stained face and realised that she was hurting just as much as he was. Christ, she was only eighteen after all. The past 24 hours must've been a nightmare for her. His gaze intensified and he suddenly acknowledged something that hurt him more than losing his past, more than Jean dieing…the simple fact that Marie's face had been stolen of its innocence. There was a hardness to it now that added a maturity far surpassing her years. It pained him to accept that she'd never be young again.

"Only making an observation," she countered sourly, although the tone of her voice reassured him that she hadn't taken offence by his words and was just teasing.

"S'pose you expect me to swim out and retrieve it?" Logan added, with a roll of his eyes.

"Nah. I'll let that one go," Marie returned gently. "Just don't do it again."

Logan offered her a hint of a smile, although the action felt somehow wrong, under the circumstances.

"I brought you this, as well," Marie announced, retrieving a cigar from her jeans pocket. "Thought you might want a smoke."

He accepted the cigar gratefully. "What would I do without you, kid?" he found himself saying.

She shrugged dismissively, gesturing to her head. "Thank the *you* up here. He suggested it."

Not for the first time, he found himself puzzling over how that all worked. Marie had tried to explain to him once but it still seemed weird knowing that he was up there, in her mind, like some separate mini entity. He even wondered whether that was where that lost part of him actually resided now.

"Lighter?" he requested as he wedged the cigar between his lips and automatically began chewing the end like it was some subconscious action he had no control over.

There was a moment's silence and then: "Shit!"

He snapped his gaze onto her, not used to Marie cursing. "Excuse me?"

"Oh," she despaired. "I forgot the god damn lighter."

Amused, he took the cigar back out of his mouth and slipped it into the pocket of his leather jacket that lay in his lap. "I'll save it for later."

But the tears were already pricking at her eyes, this small mistake all it took to bring her grief to the forefront again.

"No! No, it's not alright!" Her bottom lip quivered as she turned away from Logan to stare out across the lake again. "I can't do anything fucking right! If I hadn't have crashed the jet Jean would still be alive!"

Logan tensed but knew that this was inevitable. They couldn't disguise their grief for long, however hard they tried. "Don't be stupid, Marie," he managed, but only just. "If you hadn't flown the jet we'd all be dead."

"You would've got to it somehow," Marie disagreed.

"Across Alkali Lake with a crippled man and half a dozen mutant kids in tow?" Logan shook his head angrily. "Don't give me that bullshit."

She looked at him, the tears running down her face now. "But if only I could've flown the damn thing."

He slipped his gloved hand though her hair to gently clasp her neck and draw her closer. "You can't keep torturing yourself with `what ifs', kid."

"Aren't you?" she sniffed, as their eyes locked.

Her words stung, but not in a malicious way. "I - " He couldn't find the words to answer her.

She dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry, Logan. I should mind my own business."

He nudged her chin with his hand, claiming her stare again. "No. Don't ever feel that way. You're the only one who has earned a right to know *my* business."

She looked stunned and, in all honesty, Logan was shocked himself by his choice of words.

"Really, Logan?"

"Yeah, really." He drew her into his chest, wrapping his arm around her. "We'll get through all the `what ifs' together."

He sensed her smile and it made him smile and for a fleeting moment he forgot all about the events of Alkali Lake.

"That sounds like a plan," she murmured happily into his chest.